For anyone who actually knows me, I hate being overly emotional. I’ve always had a major issue connecting with my emotions. Honestly, I don’t know what stunted that growth. Considering all of the fucked up shit that has happened in my life, it could be any fucking thing. I know that I used to be able to connect with them on some level as a child, but as I grew up, it became harder and harder. I think a part of the stunted growth has to do with how my mother was with her emotions (unapproachable) and because I was always in so much pain, all of the time, that it stopped me from being able to feel anything else.
…For a really long time.
I mentioned that things were going “very well.” I always tend to understate the matter, but I’m never full of details until after I can sort everything out or once it’s over. I don’t know if I’ve sorted it out or this “well” portion of our tour is over. That’s another problem: I really hate the not knowing part.
After I wrote “It’s Not as Crazy as It Sounds”, TH and I started… I think we kind of linked back to how we were in the beginning. And to be absolutely clear here: we were insatiable fuck bunnies when we first got together. In our reminiscing, we’ve concluded that for a month straight, we had non-stop sex. Five, six times a day with little rests in between. It was like a fucking sex marathon with TV watching and eating thrown in at random intervals. It was kind of a fucking fun. Shit. Kind of? Yeah. That’s a disservice.
This doesn’t happen often. A while back, TH mentioned that it tends to happen with the changing of the seasons. And I, of course, denied this fact. I, in fact, may have used the wording “full of shit” when this came up. “May” is a strong word; yes, I fucking did. Anyway… I can’t help but notice that the leaves are changing outside… and the last time we did this was when spring was transitioning into summer… Okay. So. He’s right. I’ll just file that away for later exploitation.
I’ve been trying to deal with the emotional jet lag that tends to happen to most women when they
fuckhave repeated sexual encounters with the Person Who Makes Things Better, I.E. a soul mate. It’s really fucking hard because I am not an emotional person. I am the exact opposite of emotional; the antonym of emotional; the antithesis of emotional. If you look any of this up, my picture will be unabashedly staring back at you. And you had better believe that my eyes will be as dead as a doll’s because me + emotions = fucking disaster. There tends to be crying with snots unsexilly running out of my nose and breaking things and just. It’s generally not a good fucking thing when I connect to my Inner Girly-Girl.
And since I’ve never really been able to correlate emotions and sex, I almost always fucking connect to my inner fucking girly-girl. And yeah, there’s crying.
So. This normally comes on the heels of The Big O. I guess that’s when most women connect to the emotions…? I guess. I don’t know. I hear tell that there are women who can have sex… and not get emotional. Me on the other hand? I carry on and blubber like a baby. Not, you know, always. Otherwise, that could be some weird ass shit. But, you know, sometimes, when it’s like… you know. Please don’t make me write this down. I’m embarrassed enough as it is. Ugh.
So, a few times, I’ve started crying afterward. This is brought about because of all of the ghosts that live in my head. And like a fucking moron, I start listening to them again after it’s all over. The most common catch phrases are “failure” “broken” “he’s lying” and “fractured.” I’m sure anyone can imagine the most awful contexts of any of those and place them appropriately. So, anyway. And like a fucking moron, I start blubbering about how sorry I am that he has to put up with all of my fucking bullshit. And it really is some bullshit, right there. (That’s for you, BFMA.)
And every time, he rushes to reassure me.
Honestly? He’s very good at that kind of a thing. He makes sure that I’m okay. He makes sure that it doesn’t hurt. He’ll stop even if he’s about to… uh, hrm, hum, hum. He takes care of me. He told me, during one of my previous break downs, that he wasn’t around because of the sex, but because of me. Talk about mush, right? Yep. I’m full of some mush.
And then I fuck it all up.
I think the problem becomes entirely based on emotions and how much I just can’t figure them out or handle it. I get a bunch of sad emotions all at once. And then, that leaves me open for all of the other emotions that come running up behind. Anger/angst; self-esteem issues/self-hatred. These are all things that I purposely ignore on a regular basis because, let’s face it, I can’t handle all of it. I don’t know how to handle any of it in a constructive way (anger = breaking shit; self-hatred = cutting), so stuffing them down is the best way. Right? Apparently not. Ignoring your emotions means that when one comes out to play, then they all come out to play. And I’m left in a fucking turmoil.
Okay, so last night, I was okay. Well, yesterday I was kind of sad and listless. I didn’t have, like, a reason but I was. And then, last night, TH made me feel better in a myriad of different ways. So, I went from sad to happy. Okay? And the two of us are just kind of vegging out and watching TV and I just get… angry. I don’t even know what started it… Oh. It was about how one of us should really go out and get milk for today, otherwise, there would be little to drink in this place come morning. And he said, “I’ll pick some up later.” And yes, folks, I got pissed off because he was going to buy milk tomorrow.
And like a fucking domino effect, it went into everything that I get upset about that I feel should be fixed. And doesn’t get fixed. DOMINO. EFFECT. I went on ranting (in my head because I don’t say any of this out loud, ever, even if he asks because he has to pull it out of me like he’s pulling teeth) about how he doesn’t help out around the house, or how inconsiderate he is in comparison to how considerate I was of him when he was not working, and then. And then. And then. Yeah, the picture has been drawn. So, instead of continuing to veg out, I went storming off to my room to go to bed.
And, that didn’t fucking work because I was up, being angry and upset, until one o’clock. (And I went storming into the room at like ten or something.) So, I’m angry and upset in our room and then, shit just kept on rolling down hill. I started [internally ranting] about how I always go to bed alone and he never cuddles before bed with me unless we’re on the couch. And then, that got me on about how he doesn’t sleep in our room anymore. At all. And this angry spiral went right into…? YOU GUESSED IT. The “I’m a fucking miserable fuck up screw up shit stain failure” spiral. I mean, at that moment in time, it was pretty obvious why he didn’t sleep in our room: he really didn’t want to deal with my bullshit.
And that’s all it is: bullshit.
And this is why, ladies and gents, I do not make contact with my emotions. I don’t know how to handle them. I don’t know how to handle the overload. I don’t know how to release them in a constructive manner. I just explode in my head and then internalize it some more. I’m under the impression that this could lead to a heart attack or something. And honestly? That’s funny because I’m usually the one advocating about “talking it out” and “getting things off your chest.” Talk about a hypocrite, eh?
Of course, I have to be completely honest with myself: I don’t really like who I become when I’m this emotionless automaton. Yeah, yeah. It’s great: no crying and a tough-as-nails exterior and things just bounce off of me. But, it’s really not great. I don’t like who I am then. I’m such a fucking bitch. I’m bitingly sarcastic and mean, for no reason. Or, I think there’s a reason but it doesn’t warrant how completely fucking mean I can be. (I can make lumber jacks cry, folks. I’m a mean SOB.) I am an ice cold ice-queen. That is what I become when I just shove it right on deep down. And there’s no sex. And there’s no connection. And I only have fleeting pieces of “this is it; this is one” when I should really have those thoughts more than “fleetingly.”
I don’t really know how to fix this, you know? I could try and tell TH all of this stuff, but I fuck it up when I try. I mean, I get tongue tied and since I’m a word-o-holic that shit just don’t fly. So, then I get pissed off that I’m fucking this whole thing up when I had specifically choreographed how. it. should. go. for. fuck’s. sake over and over and over again until it was “just right.” And then I take it out on him because, I’m perfect you know and I have to lash out like some dumbass. I could write him a letter because sometimes that works, but that pisses me off too. He reads it and then tosses it aside like it didn’t matter. And that gets my goat like nothing else. (The whole something I did not mattering, which is really me not mattering.)
And what makes this all the most fucked up of fucked up is that I feel like he should just know. I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain myself to him; how I work and think. I feel like he should just know that I am hurting and I am upset and I am angsty and I am out of sorts. I feel like he should know what I’m trying to convey when I fuck up our “meaningful” conversations. And then, since he doesn’t know, I get really mad and expect him to crawl on nails to fix it. Because I’m… intolerable and completely fucking retarded and uncomprehending of how anything works in the real world, apparently.
I’M A FUCK UP, FOLKS. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
TA always told me that I would always self-sabotage my relationships. And that’s always stuck with me. I think that’s partly why I held out so long with MEH. I wanted to prove to her that I could do this. And that I could make something work properly. But, you know, she’s right. She’s absolutely right. I sabotage everything. And it’s a real wonder that I’ve found someone who is willingly able to put up with this fucking horse shit for four years now. (FUCKING FOUR YEARS? GEEEEEZ.) It’s not a wonder; it’s a fucking miracle. A mother fucking miracle. And I bet you, I bet you… I’m fucking it up with my fucked up bullshit.
And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to stop myself from being this stupid idiot and I don’t know how to explain all of this to him. And I don’t want to do this by myself. And I don’t want pity. And I don’t want commiseration. I want some to take a boot to my face and fuck me up beyond repair. Maybe then, it would sink in.
Although. I doubt it.